


A Step Too Far

by potentiality_26



Category: Callan (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, First Time, Flashbacks, M/M, Minor Violence, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-28 15:52:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19397374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potentiality_26/pseuds/potentiality_26
Summary: Dead mother, absent father, constant stream of nannies and tutors until he could be safely shipped off to boarding school... Callan had skimmed that part of Meres' file while he was Hunter because it all seemed a bit poor little rich boy.  It didn’t feel like that now.After Richmond, Callan does a spot of eavesdropping and learns something he never knew.





	A Step Too Far

**Author's Note:**

> References "The Richmond File" episodes and "You Should Have Got Here Sooner" pretty heavily. I went back and forth on whether to put some kind of "not that fluffy but fluffy for the source material" tag on this- I went back and forth on how fluffy it in fact is- so YMMV. Obviously the "post-canon" tag is used in a " _Wet Job_? I don't know her" capacity. Fills my 100fandoms table prompt #30 (truth) and possibly also my hc_bingo "forced to participate in illegal / hurtful activity" square. 
> 
> Not Brit-picked.

Callan had, once or twice, managed to convince himself that he didn’t have to watch his back quite so carefully with this Hunter as he had with some of his predecessors. He was no John Ramsey, but he was no Colonel Leslie either. Since Richmond, though, Callan knew better. He was right in the crosshairs, and would be in real trouble if he just sat there waiting to get shot.

Luckily, he was proactive. His stint as Hunter, though brief, had not been without its advantages; he had left a bug in Hunter’s office. If it was found before he had a chance to retrieve it, things probably wouldn't end well for him- but he had known even before Richmond that the section most likely didn't intend to let him go alive. Maybe it was better to have earned it. 

Liz had left Callan’s file out on her desk that morning, knowing that he would see it and have some warning of what Hunter had planned. He paid attention accordingly, noting that Hunter got the file in, and then about an hour later called for Meres. Now he was going to find out what they talked about.

He kept the recording equipment in a storage unit Lonely rented through a friend of a friend. The section would be able to trace it back to him eventually, but only if they suspected anything. So far they hadn’t.

What, then, was Hunter up to?

Callan found the point on the tape where Hunter asked for Meres with relative ease- then it was just a question of waiting for his knock, for the door, for that familiar silky, “Yes sir?”

“Sit down, Meres.”

Another, “Yes sir,” and Meres sat.

“It’s come to my attention of that one of my predecessors-” a pause, as if he had to check the name in his file- “Colonel Leslie, was... hmm... particularly interested in finding a way to control our friend Callan.”

“That he was. With threats and blackmail, mostly.”

Hunter’s silence was audibly unenthusiastic, which Callan found a little funny, considering he must have asked Meres in to help re-adopt one of these policies in the aftermath of Richmond’s inconvenient demise. “There’s a note he left in this file I don’t altogether understand. But it seems to suggest some attempt, in that line, which was ineffective. Can you tell me what it was?”

Meres was quiet a while, but eventually- reluctantly, Callan thought- he answered: “It occurred to the colonel, briefly and not long before he left us, to try-” Meres cleared his throat- “honey rather than vinegar.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“You may have noticed that threats and blackmail only get you so far with Callan.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed.” Hunter’s voice was a low growl.

“His friends are a little better as forms of leverage go. The colonel thought that a lover might be better still. The potential for manipulation would be considerable, and it would also preempt certain other difficulties. If, for instance, Callan fell in love with a civilian and tried again to leave the section behind.”

“Yes, we had that problem not long ago.”

“I heard.” Meres’ tone had gone remarkably flat. “Suffice it to say, the section would have to be in full control. And so the colonel had the brilliant idea to keep it in house, so to speak. Use someone from the section itself, waiving any orders against such a relationship accordingly.”

“You don’t mean Liz, surely.”

“No sir. I mean me.”

“ _You_ , Meres?”

Meres sighed. “I told him it wasn’t a good idea, but he wasn’t taking criticism. Callan responded exactly as well as I expected. I had bruises for days, ask anyone who was there back then. So the colonel made his little note and we all moved on- though I had a hell of a time getting things back to an even keel with Callan, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Yes,” Hunter said after a while. “I suppose I can. Meres?”

“Yes sir?”

“There _is_ a reason beyond your loyalty to the section that the colonel selected you for this job, isn’t there?”

“That is-” another sigh- “possible. But, if you’ve read my file as well, you know that when it comes to things you might use against _me_ , you’re rather spoiled for choice. And I need hardly say that threats to my safety, or future in the section, will not help you with Callan at all.”

“No, I see that, Meres.”

“Very good sir. Is there anything else?”

“I don’t believe there is.” Hunter sounded disappointed, perhaps even disappointed enough to give up. 

Callan heard Meres leave, heard Hunter rustle some papers and then pour himself a drink, but mostly he paid little attention and eventually flicked the machines off. He didn’t know what to make of any of it. If Meres had tried to seduce him, Callan was reasonably sure he would remember. Not least because if Meres had bruises after, he wouldn’t have got them the way he implied he had, or in places their colleagues could readily see. What the hell _had_ happened, then? When did any of this even-

_Oh._

“Christ, Toby,” Callan muttered to himself. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “ _Christ_.”

* * *

“Ah, there you are,” Meres said with a smile, as if he had run into Callan in a shop somewhere, and was pleasantly surprised to see him. That broad, fake grin did not promise good things for Callan- especially since Meres was on his doorstep, and it was nine o’clock at night. “Just the man I wanted to see.” 

At that time, Callan had done several 'last' jobs for the section, every one of which Hunter- still Colonel Leslie- had managed to extend into another job. It was ugly work, and ugliest whenever Callan had to work with Meres. It was several months after Pollock's return to prison, and Callan was still waiting for some escalation from Meres that hadn’t come. It was exhausting. Callan was just off of one such job; his mood was bad and he didn’t need-

“I need a favor."

For a second- which was a second longer than he'd like- Callan could only stare at Meres. Then he rallied: "What's in it for me?" 

Meres’ grin widened. “I’d have to owe you, old son. But I think you’ll do this for nothing.”

“All right, Toby, come in.” Callan stepped aside with a jerk of his head. “I’ll bite. What favor do you think I’ll do you for nothing?”

Meres was still smirking as he obeyed, strolling into the flat like he hadn’t a care in the world. “I need you to hit me.”

“What?” Callan managed to shut the door and slide the chain home by sheer muscle memory, but no more before he was wheeling around to stare at Meres, who continued to look terribly pleased with himself. Though there was something in his eyes that let Callan know he- this- was quite serious.

“Punch me.” Meres pointed to his mouth. “Right here.”

“Why?”

“Hunter’s put me on some... let’s call it 'off the books' work. Needs a little realism.”

“When?”

Off the books was normally Callan’s department. The piece of extortion he just finished with had left a bad taste in Callan's mouth. He really would much rather be left out of Hunter’s next scheme- but since that seemed as likely as snow in hell, the idea made Callan even more suspicious than the smile. “Just now, old boy. No need to fuss over it.” 

“So it’s nothing to do with that Pollock business?”

It was Callan’s first sentence of more than one word since Meres threw this at him, and he couldn’t even be proud of it because- if Meres was planning something and maybe especially if he wasn’t- Callan didn’t want him to know that this was on his mind. 

Lonely actually seemed mostly all right with what happened. Hunter kept his word about the hospital, and Lonely did well there. There were beds and regular meals, like prison without the bad parts. Meres could never leave him alone, which Lonely managed to turn his advantage; he got pity from doctors and nurses alike- possibly they thought the nicer they were the sooner he’d leave and they wouldn’t have to see or smell him again- and regularly found himself the better for the spat. It was almost charming- except that Lonely seemed mostly all right with what happened. 

Callan was there for the aftermath- and just how could Lonely be all right with that? It wasn't a pleasant thought, but Callan might have felt better if the little creep woke up screaming every night. As it was, Lonely seemed to only vaguely understand what he was even meant to be bruised about, physically or emotionally. Callan admired it, in a sick way. How Meres could make someone forget a thing just to stay sane. So whenever Callan thought about how Lonely didn't even know what happened anymore, he figured Meres still owed him something.

But whenever he thought about what came later, how he didn’t even like to give it a name, he was sure Meres would see it the other way around. 

“It never crossed my mind,” Meres said.

Callan didn’t quite buy it. “Ask someone else,” he said, and wished he hadn’t. Meres was right, he was fussing- and suspicious or not he wasn’t even sure why. They had sparred before. They had done much worse. 

“Best if it’s you,” Meres said airily. He pointed again. “Come on, David. Right here.”

“This _is_ for Charlie?” Callan asked once more. 

Meres gave a terribly mangled scout’s salute. “I swear.” 

Callan did it; clipped him so fast he barely felt it at first. He didn’t know what he’d do if Meres came up fighting, still less if he asked him to do it again. Callan felt strange, half giddy and half something else he didn’t want to examine too closely. He went to the kitchen before Meres could straighten up and wet a rag, mostly for something to do with his hands. “Here,” he said.

“The point is to look hurt,” Meres argued, prodding a split lip.

“You will.” Callan felt unusually charitable, suddenly. And that other something was beginning to feel alarmingly like sympathy. The things they did for the damn section. The things it made them do. “And sit down, for God’s sake. You’re a vain enough bastard to get it looked after straightaway. That’s realism, isn't it?”

Meres chuckled softly as he sat down, rag finally held to his face. He winced. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“And here’s me thinking of trying out a comedy routine.”

Meres chuckled again and winced again, and somewhere in the middle of it he shot Callan this look that was... very calm. Placid, easy. Callan didn’t recognize it- not on Meres, or in himself either. He didn't know whether to be jealous or alarmed or something else entirely. “Like a drink, Toby?” he said instead. It was strange, to willingly keep Meres in his home a minute longer than necessary, but the charitable feeling wasn’t gone yet and if Callan was honest he rather liked feeling that way. 

“Yes, thank you.” Meres leaned back on the couch, sprawling, and Callan decided any other questions could go unanswered.

It was only later, walking into the section for target practice, that Callan saw the fading bruises on Meres’ face and on his own knuckles, saw Hunter looking particularly sour, and wondered if this wasn’t the other shoe, dropping. But nothing came of it, and if Meres _had_ thought to break some of the tension between them after what happened with Pollock, and Lonely, Callan had to admit he actually struck the right chord for once. And then the colonel was gone, and though the section would never be an everyday job, nor Meres an everyday colleague, things did get better.

For a while, anyway.

* * *

“Ah, there you are. Just the man I wanted to see.” 

If Meres recognized the words Callan parroted at him, he didn’t show it. It was years ago, after all, and Meres didn’t always seem to think very hard about the things he said. But Meres had had almost the same forcible reminder of the incident as Callan, and at almost the same time, so maybe he did remember.

Either way, when he showed up on Meres’ doorstep that night, Callan remembered it well enough for both of them. 

Meres’ tie was gone, his sleeves rolled up almost to his elbows. He looked... ruffled, ruffled enough that Callan wondered if he was alone. But there was no sound but a record player from within, and Meres didn't seem like he'd interrupted anything. He only seemed confused. “Gonna invite me in?” Callan asked. 

Meres shook himself and stepped aside. “Terribly rude of me. Come in.”

“Ta very much.” Callan turned around himself as he walked in. He’d never been in this flat before. It was big, fancy, and probably came already furnished because there wasn’t a stick of furniture anywhere that looked like something Meres would actually pick out for himself. Most of the time when Meres talked admiringly about his things, Callan assumed he was taking the piss- and maybe he was, but maybe he also meant it. His flat had no family pictures, and no detritus of a hobby like Callan’s did. It wasn’t easy for people like them to make a place feel even slightly like a home, and Meres clearly didn’t have the knack. 

“Would you like a drink?” Meres turned off the record player and picked up a nearly empty glass. He gestured expansively with it.

“Could do with a cup of tea, actually.”

Meres looked at that glass a while as though he would dearly like to refill it. Then he slowly made his way to the kitchen to fill a kettle instead. As he worked, he talked, too conversationally. “You know, don’t you? Why Hunter wanted to meet with me today?” 

“Yeah, I do.” Callan's eyes followed Meres with interest. He wanted tea less than he wanted to watch Meres make it. Meres was a fiddler. He needed something to do with his hands, and they were such pretty hands. And right now, despite his even voice, they weren’t entirely steady. He was a sulky drunk, which was why he avoided it when he was meant to be working. But he wasn’t there yet; his movements were just a little more liquid than usual. That faint tremble in his fingers wasn't from alcohol. It was from something else. 

“ _How_ do you know?”

“I may have seen a certain file on a certain desk.” Everyone knew Liz was a little more loyal to him than she ought to be; so far everyone was doing a good job of ignoring it. He wasn’t giving much away, to mention it- though it wasn't meaningless either. She was as close to irreplaceable as anyone, and Hunter’s favorite to boot, which gave her a certain amount of leeway- but Callan wasn't sure it would always be enough. 

Meres' back was still to him, and it stiffened. “It’s more than that, though. You’ve bugged Hunter’s office.”

“Guilty.” Now _that_ was giving something away. 

The line of Meres' back went from stiff to _stone_. He might have suspected what happened- but he obviously hadn't thought for a second that Callan would come right out and _say_ it. Just as well. Callan wanted Meres off balance. “They’ll really go after you this time.”

The kettle screeched.

Meres, very slightly, jumped. There was something sheepish in the way he set the tea steep, the last dregs of relaxation completely gone. Callan wasn't surprised. Meres always sobered up fast enough when things got interesting. 

Callan watched him without saying anything else for a while. Then, “You check _this_ place for bugs, Toby?”

“Regularly.”

“Then hopefully they won’t find out.” It landed somewhere between _peace offering_ and _threat_. Meres had something on him now, but Callan had something on him too. Something big. He _cared_.

When Meres finally passed him a cup, the tea was good- hot and strong- but Callan wasn’t very interested in it. He drank it down fast and appreciated the burn in his throat.

Meres, meanwhile, held his cup between two hands, peering down at it as if all the mysteries of the universe were collected at the bottom. Eventually he wandered to the couch. It was a black, harsh looking thing, and Meres sat with one elbow across the arm, sipping his tea like he needed, still, to keep himself busy. His eyes were unfocused, the cup’s journey from saucer to mouth a mechanical one. At last, he said, “You aren’t here to talk about bugs, are you?”

“You know what I’m here to talk about.” Callan set his cup down and walked over to the couch, perching beside Meres on the too-stiff arm of it and looking down at him. “Bruises for days?” He clucked his tongue. “We both know that’s not how it would’ve gone.” The colonel probably knew too, but couldn’t prove it- so Meres got away with his half-baked little scheme.

Meres lifted an eyebrow, smirking. “Maybe that’s exactly why I didn’t do it.”

The implication, that he wasn’t willing to take such a seduction to its natural conclusion, that he would do a lot of things for the section but not have sex with a man- or, rather, have sex with a man he didn’t want, because Meres _did_ have sex with men, Callan knew he did, though they were young and fresh-faced and nothing at all like Callan- was perfectly reasonable. It was also nonsense, at least the wanting this- wanting _Callan_ \- part of it. Meres' eyes would have told him that much, even if a million other things hadn’t. Meres wasn’t actually a very good liar in his personal life, which was part of why Callan trusted him even though it seemed obvious that he wouldn’t.

Just like he wanted him even though it seemed obvious that he wouldn’t.

“I know that’s why,” Callan said gently. Because, whatever Meres chose to imply, it was also the right answer. Callan reached out and touched Meres' jaw, as if he could still find those bruises there, years later. Meres stilled. He had known he could get the colonel exactly what he wanted, known it even when their relationship was at its lowest point, and he had decided not to. 

Meres huffed out a long breath and slumped back, knocking Callan’s hand down to his collarbone. “I wasn’t very happy with you at the time.” Meres' lips pursed and twitched a few times as he considered how to follow this clear understatement. "I was trying to get past it, but the colonel wasn't making it easy. I knew he probably had a reason for that, and then he brought me in for this. And I really thought there was a decent chance you _would_ deck me, and then I thought... would he really know the difference? I did a lot of things to hurt you. I have since. But I was tired and I... I wanted to do right by you. Just once. Maybe to prove that I could.”

Callan said nothing, and Meres saluted with his teacup like it was still something stronger. Callan took it away from him and set it on the table before putting his hand right back on Meres' chest. His top two buttons were undone and it was easy to slip his little finger underneath to touch warm, smooth skin.

Meres shivered. Oh, he wanted this all right. “This is a bad idea,” he said. It rattled out of him.

“For you or for me?” Callan slid his hand lower, touching Meres' chest underneath his shirt. Callan knew the answer now; he thought it might be nice to hear Meres say it.

He wouldn’t, though. “ _Me_.”

Callan took his hand away. “Right,” he said flatly. “Because someday you’ll be Hunter and I’ll be dead or in some prison getting tortured until I am dead, and we can’t have _this_ hanging over us, now can we?” 

Meres didn’t flinch, but he didn’t have to. If he ever really thought that was where all this was headed, he would have handled himself differently and they both knew it. 

“But you’ll never _really_ be Hunter, now, will you? The section, the Russians- spoiled for choice, you said, and that at least was the truth. You’ve got too many skeletons and too many bad habits. They’ve made you look like a double agent so often no one will ever be completely sure you aren’t one. And that’s funny, because you’re actually too loyal for your own good sometimes. Snell knew that. He’s got a list of notes on you as long as my arm.”

Meres did flinch there. Typical. 

“Don’t worry. He stopped caring once he decided he’d figured you out. _I’d_ probably have figured it out months ago if I paid attention. He said that you were done with all of us when you left for Washington, but that you’d come back for me and you did. And you said it was because you wanted to be Hunter when you knew it wouldn’t happen no matter how powerful your friends are. You’ve known it since the colonel asked you to make a move on me- because if he could use it against me, he could use it against you, and he probably would too. And you could’ve taken me down with you, but you didn’t. And I wish you-” Callan’s voice cracked. He hadn't planned to get so worked up- and he hadn't been when he got here- but Meres always had that effect on him, and it didn’t matter anyway because it _worked_. 

Meres, slouching like a marionette with its strings cut a moment before, made an animal whining noise and surged up, taking Callan’s face in both hands and kissing him hard. 

The balance was off for a second, the suddenness of the movement nearly enough to tip Callan right off Meres' stupidly uncomfortable couch. But Callan pushed him backwards and grinned briefly at Meres' stunned look before kissing him again. Meres tasted like good tea and better scotch, and he felt good, half underneath Callan like that. Callan slid his hand into Meres' shirt again to feel his heart rabbiting underneath warm skin. 

“You wish what?” Meres said after a while, sucking in a breath between kisses. “You want me to _say_ it?”

"Just say something true."

“I’m _scared_ , David. I’m bloody terrified that one day they really will make me-” he cut himself short, ducking his head as if to hide his face, but it didn’t matter. There was a reason Hunter called Meres when he decided that Richmond was too much to let slide. They were the best in the section. They knew too much and had too many liabilities. How were their masters supposed to control them, except with each other? No wonder Meres was getting tired. 

“I know, Toby,” Callan said as Meres' bowed head dragged against his chest.

“I don’t hate you.” Meres kissed him through his shirt, hands dropping to his shoulders and just hanging there, heavy. How long ago, Callan wondered, had he listened to the recordings from Richmond's debriefing? How long had he been wondering whether or not he could bear to let it stand? “I _don’t_.”

“I know.”

* * *

Callan always knew he could probably have Meres if he made an effort; he might not be exactly a prize, but there was too much between them for that to matter much- not that Meres didn't sometimes look at him as if he _was_ a prize, blinking awe out of his eyes more than once that night. Callan knew it was possible the same way he knew that, if Meres really had made a move on him, it would have worked- and every bit as well as the colonel could have hoped. Even when they were at odds. Even when they were fighting tooth and nail. Of course, it would have been a bit meaner a lot of those times. Meres would probably know where to put himself now better if it was. And maybe later whatever biting and scratching, whatever battle of wills, Meres had been expecting would be more appealing. It certainly had been in the past. But not now. Now it was big enough that Meres had stopped shaking.

Callan pressed him back into stiff cushions, took his face in both hands and kissed him, turned his head and kissed him again. “Still worried about that bug?” he asked, fingers in Meres' hair. It looked so dark against his hands, and felt so silky. 

Meres' hands dropped to his arms. “Yes.”

“Don’t be. If-”

One of Meres' hands clenched around his bicep like a vice, tight enough to leave exactly the kind of bruises Callan had thought about before.

“- _When_ I get rid of it, everything's going to be fine.” 

He did have a plan to remove it; Meres' opinions on the subject only accelerated it a bit. It wasn’t just his file he had seen on Liz’s desk that morning. There were other files too, which suggested a major operation was ahead. If Hunter needed Callan for it, it would explain why he so desperately wanted that little something extra to ensure Callan didn't disobey him again- and it would provide plenty of cover for Callan to remove the bug. 

“You’ll be the only one that knows anything.” Callan found he liked the idea more than he would have expected- just as he liked it when he and Meres were in the field and would sink or swim together. He wondered if Meres realized that he knew just how happy Meres always was then. Snell had whole paragraphs on the subject, and on what shooting Callan had done to him. Callan hadn’t entirely credited it, until Richmond’s lies tested him. _I don’t hate you_ , Meres said, like it wasn’t obvious by now. Maybe that was the closest he could get to saying the opposite. Callan wondered if he’d ever said it. Snell had his thoughts there too. Dead mother, absent father, constant stream of nannies and tutors until he could be safely shipped off to boarding school... Callan had skimmed that part of Meres' file while he was Hunter because it all seemed a bit poor little rich boy. It didn’t feel like that now. 

Callan resented Snell for nightmarish deprogramming sessions, for Cross, for a dozen things over the years- but in his impersonal way he’d done them this one favor. He said if Meres had to hurt Callan again there was a decent chance he’d be useless for anything else. If Snell had known about Leslie’s little plan, he might have upgraded the chance from decent. 

Meres would always be the one Hunter called into his office for these kinds of issues. He would always be the one Hunter relied on to take his side. But Hunter might balk at more, if it meant losing both of them.

Emphasis on _might_.

“And I’ll play nice for a while, all right?” Callan said.

"I know you much too well to believe that," Meres replied. But he loosened his grip all the same.

Callan turned his head and kissed him again. “You’ll never be Hunter.”

"I'm sure that will turn into an endearment if you repeat it often enough." Meres had calmed down enough by then to smirk faintly, as if he knew it actually felt a bit like one. As if he knew why. Callan could see it, wriggling on the edges of Meres' expression- the same look he wore that night in Callan's flat, years ago, when he decided to do the right thing and found he wasn't sorry, for all going against Hunter was new to him, and might still go horribly wrong. Callan had thought about being jealous back then, because he didn’t know what it felt like. To see past all the anger and paranoia, the cold-blooded notion that a well-fortified defensive position could substitute for some degree of happiness. He knew what it felt like now. He always figured Meres was different from him, secure in a way he wasn't. Because of his charm, his background, his... everything. But they weren't as different as Callan used to tell himself they were; maybe they never had been. Meres' file was as red as blood; he’d never be Hunter, never sit safe on the sidelines. And he _knew_ it. Callan could leave right now and it might be safer in the short run- but it wouldn’t save either of them in the long one.

“I’d as soon hang for a sheep as a lamb, that’s all,” Callan said. “Wouldn’t you?”

When Meres finally started kissing him again, he didn’t stop.

* * *

“I hate your couch,” Callan said after a while.

"Hmm?"

The response Callan considered- _that’s intelligent_ \- never quite made it out because Meres was such a picture just then, lips kiss-swollen and gleaming. Callan decided to save it for later in case Meres needed distracting with witty repartee. He didn’t want him distracted just now. He had gotten Meres' shirt unbuttoned and pushed back over his shoulders, but neither of them had been willing to shift enough to get it off completely, so Meres' arms were still caught up in it. Callan liked him this way, under him and half-immobilized- it gave him ideas. But they were idle thoughts for the future only, like considerations of how Meres could get a better couch, surely. It was probably at least half true, what Richmond had said about Meres not actually having much money to burn- but it would be a pretty sorry state of affairs if they always had to go to Callan’s place for a snog. 

And, idle or not, it was those thoughts that really snapped him into the moment. Shifted something in the geography of his mind as he realized: _I'm doing this_. And _I'm going to do this again_. _And again_. He kissed Meres once more, right at the upper lip, and stood- not too awkwardly, considering he had been hard since they started kissing and his legs weren’t as steady as he would've liked. “That means _bed._ ”

"Right." Meres looked dazed, but he had the presence of mind to shrug out of his shirt before he stood as well, bumping up against Callan. Callan let Meres get his jacket off of him too while he was thinking about it, let Meres' hands glide down his sides after. Meres immobilized was nice, but Meres touching was good too. He was reverent one minute, frantic the next, working Callan’s shirt out of his trousers and shoving those hands underneath as they kissed again. _God_ , that felt good. 

"Bed," Callan repeated, swallowing down a groan.

It was probably Meres' turn for some remark about intelligence, but he didn't say anything like that. He found Callan's belt and slid it free, tossing it somewhere along with his shirt and Callan’s jacket. He worked his fingers into the empty loops. “Right,” he said again, grinning, and tugged.

Luckily they were both more coordinated than articulate, and made it to the bedroom without incident. Callan didn't notice much about it, beyond the fact that when Meres backed right into the bed it did look more comfortable than the couch. 

Meres landed among the bedclothes, his legs falling open. Callan hadn’t noticed that he was barefoot earlier. He noticed now. For a moment he lingered by the end of the bed and just looked, eyes starting way down there and following the line of a long leg up and up, right to the bulge between slim thighs. He discovered he had plans for it. Then there was the flat plane of Meres' belly, tanned and mostly hairless, his chest, his throat, his _smirk_. Every bit the vain bastard Callan had excused him of being, Meres had leaned back on his elbows, and he was obviously enjoying the attention.

Callan shook himself. Enamored of the man he was; there was no point- or possibility- of hiding it. But Callan wouldn't drool over him either. "Why don't you make yourself useful?" he said. He jerked his chin towards the bedside table. There had to be something slick in there. There was a spark of jealousy deep in his gut when he thought about Meres, here, with someone else. But it was always that way. And it was always easy enough to ignore- more so, now, as Meres rolled over and crawled up, dark trousers hugging the curve of his arse. 

Possibly a little drooling was unavoidable. 

Still watching, Callan undid his own trousers. He jerked one leg off, then the other, shirt and tie following after. He wasn’t sure, suddenly, how he had tolerated being so dressed for so long. 

“Got it,” he heard Meres say, and he half tripped into the bed. It was indeed better than the couch, not that he spared much thought for it the moment they were chest to chest, skin to skin. A groan turned into a laugh as Meres pushed his pants over his cock and down his legs, getting one of his socks off at the same time. Meres was grinning again, sweeter than the smirk from before, and Callan had wanted to kiss him while he looked like that for longer than he liked to admit. And then Callan _was_ kissing him, kissing him through the contortions required to get that other sock off, kissing him as those hands came right back to where they were, snaking in between their bodies to grab Callan's cock and stroke, kissing him as he teetered, like he always did, just on the knife's edge of too rough. 

Callan liked it. He always knew, deep down, that he would. His head canted back, breaking the kiss, and soon he felt Meres' mouth down his jaw, nipping at his throat. Callan buried his nose briefly in soft hair, his arm curling around Meres' back. He thrust lightly against Meres' hand, changing the rhythm to something a little smoother. He liked it all right. He could probably go off just like this, a thought that was awfully appealing but also _not_ the plan. He fumbled around until he found something cold, the jar Meres had dropped among the sheets. 

He pressed it back into Meres' free hand.

Callan had to tug a little on Meres' hair and- reluctantly- bat that lovely hand away to get anything like a lucid expression from Meres. Even then it was only a lifted eyebrow above lust-hazed eyes. Callan said, "I told you to make yourself useful, didn't I?" 

Meres stretched out, his legs falling open again. He propped his arm up on one knee, restless fingers flipping the jar this way and that, and gave Callan a considerably keener look. He wasn’t actually sure what Callan meant for him to do, clearly- and he wasn't shy about it, just assessing. And the image of Meres stripping the rest of the way down and opening himself up for him was one that made Callan’s mouth go dry. But he filed it too away for later and turned onto his stomach, head angled so that he could still watch Meres. 

_Never mind_ , Callan thought a moment later. Meres had been sure and playing coy, maybe wanting to make him say it. Meres had been sure and _wrong_ , judging by the quickly buried look of astonishment on his face. He sat up fast and then moved slowly, free hand coming up to rest on the back of Callan’s neck like he thought Callan was about to kick him. He wasn’t right, but he wasn’t being exactly unfair either. Callan's back muscles stiffened at the weight of another body so close to him. One of his hands made a fist of the bedclothes, and he did have to hold himself very still at first, fighting self-preservation instincts older than the section, prison, even the military- though nurtured by all three. It wasn’t about who was doing the fucking, though; it wasn't even about sex- and he hoped Meres knew that. There was just a particular vulnerability to having someone _right there_ , one it took a moment's thought to relax into. He remembered how Meres' voice went flat when Hunter mentioned Callan's last affair. Evidently he got jealous, too. Like just about every other relationship Callan had had with a civilian, that one taught him he couldn't really protect anyone, from his enemies or from himself. But he still wanted to try. And apparently the colonel was onto something, because when he heard Meres say _I told him it wasn’t a good idea_ and _I had bruises for days_ it occurred to him for the first time that it might be nice the other way around too. 

And it was. Meres' fingers were calloused but delicate, hesitant in a way they weren't wrapped around his cock, and for a while they just cradled his neck. Nice. When Meres evidently decided it really was all right, his hand slid across Callan's shoulder, rubbing, and then worked down his arm before wrapping gently around his clenched fist.

"That _is_ what you usually do, isn't it?" Callan said on an exhale. 

“Well.” Meres' voice was tight as he shifted, his knee coming to rest between Callan’s legs, not touching but palpably, inescapably _there_. “Actually, no. Not usually.”

“Oh.” Callan coughed as a vision of Meres directing some trainee, attractive yet ill-defined in his mind’s eye, hit him hard. He could just picture the boy, eager to please like they always were with Meres, and Meres himself, that silken voice slowly roughening as he explained just how to _take_ him. "I like that," Callan murmured, not altogether sure if he meant the image he had just conjured in his mind, or the fact that he had asked for something outside of Meres' usual fare. It was a bit of both, he decided. That curl of jealousy was still there in his belly, but it was interwoven with something that was all arousal, and that had not faded during his brief moment of discomfort. And given a bit more to feed on now, it only flared hotter.

Callan craned his head back to kiss Meres again. Meres' arm curled underneath him, dragging him closer. His chest was hot against Callan's back, his cock fitted to his arse, exactly right- except for the fabric in between them. "Christ's sake, Toby," he said, lips bumping against Meres’ chin, joints protesting as he reached back to fumble with Meres’ trousers. “Will you get these _off_?”

And then Meres was laughing breathlessly and wriggling out of the rest of his clothes, all elbows and knees. 

He wasn’t so bad at doing two things at once, though; when he put his hands on Callan again he had gotten them nicely slick. They slipped a few times against Callan's skin as Meres touched him, hand gliding almost too smooth down his back. And then there was Meres' palm at his arse, Meres' thumb sliding down his crease, just a tease at first. 

"All right?" Meres murmured. It was difficult to tell, with his voice so ragged, if that was wariness or solicitousness, or something else altogether. 

"Fine," Callan said, and meant it when Meres' hand shifted, one finger pushing inexorably in. 

Callan half wished he could see it, that pretty hand opening him up. Didn’t really matter. He could feel it- and he _would_ feel it. It had been a while since he last did it like this himself. There was a sting, at first, but Meres worked his finger- then _fingers_ \- in just so and soon there was only pleasure, and an ache that it was so easy to settle into.

Almost too easy. Callan pushed back against him. Meres made a noise low in his throat and shifted forward, against him, _in_ him, legs bracketing his. His head bent and Callan felt his mouth against the side of his head, not kissing so much as just resting there. 

When Meres withdrew a moment later, Callan missed him immediately. Missed his fingers. Missed his mouth. But he kept quiet because Meres wasn't gone long. In a moment he was back again, long fingers holding Callan steady, open, the blunt and slippery head of Meres' cock pressing home. The heat, the building pleasure-pain of being stretched wide, intensified. Meres settled against him as he bottomed out, his stomach and chest flush to Callan’s back once more. Callan made a fist of the bedclothes again, this time for all the best reasons. 

Meres' hand came to rest on Callan’s flank. “All right?” he asked again. If his voice was tight before, it sounded _wrecked_ now, and it came hot across Callan's temple. 

Callan nodded. Meres probably didn't see it, but maybe he felt it, and it didn’t matter either way, so long as he was moving. And he _was_ moving, sort of- he set a pace that was glacial, and Callan let him at first half out of fascination- Meres was normally on this side of things, was that how he liked it, then? Callan had imagined him as the quick and dirty type, but he had imagined a lot of things about Toby Meres over the years that weren’t strictly true- and half because it was actually good, achingly good. Meres was all the way in him but his thrusts were extremely shallow, little rolls of his hips that barely took him away before he was back again, sending sparks right through Callan every time. “Toby,” he choked out finally, when balancing on that line between too much and not enough became unbearable.

Meres murmured something indecipherable, but at the same time he- oh. That was better. He rocked back a little, like Callan had woken him up somehow, and snapped his hips forward.

Better still. But they were back at the wariness-solicitousness-something else question, and Callan wasn't in much of a state to answer it. Possibly he was bothered about whether Callan really liked this, whether he felt secure, whether he needed handling with kid gloves suddenly. And when Callan talked about playing nice he hadn't meant with each other. He was seeing things differently now, but he didn't think they were _that_ different.

Then again. Possibly he was only waiting to be asked. “I'm _fine_ ,” Callan managed, giving it a try though he wasn't big on talking at a moment like this. “More than. But _you_ won’t be unless you-”

Callan half expected another of those pretty breathless laughs. Instead he got a groan- as if Meres really had been waiting.

 _Ah, Toby_ _._ Meres never could make anything easy, even on himself. 

And just like that he settled back on his haunches and started to _really_ move- still not fast exactly, but in long thrusts, powerful. His grip shifted to Callan’s hip and drew him up a little- it was a good angle for Meres to work into him, and a good angle for Callan shove back too. And Meres made a noise that was _lovely_ the first time he did. Callan rediscovered his hands at last, reaching back with one to grip Meres by the arse and urge him on. It was nice, plush, and Meres seemed to like the way Callan's fingers dug into it as much as Callan did. 

And then it was almost too fast, too soon. Meres' grip on his hip slackened and his fingertips brushed Callan's cock. Callan thought then that he might have actually liked to savor this a bit longer- but he could feel every stroke growing more uneven, fitful, and knew there simply wasn’t time. 

Meres' arms were around him- one against his chest and curling up to cup his shoulder, the other heavy at his waist and gripping his cock tighter now, pulling in time with roughening thrusts. Callan pushed back until Meres' chest was hot against him once more, and then he turned his head to draw Meres into an awkward kiss. Their lips had barely met before he came into Meres' fist.

Meres made a noise low in his throat. However close he seemed, he must have been holding back, because he pulled out at just the moment Callan was sensitive enough that the ache of his absence was more a relief than a disappointment. Callan was only dimly aware of him finishing, rolling onto his back with a grunt and pulling his cock until he came too. “Wouldn’t have minded if you did that on me,” he said, or maybe just thought about saying, pitched over on his stomach and panting. He flung an arm out across Meres' chest instead. 

Meres’ breath took some time to even out. “Bed all right, then?” he asked eventually.

Callan was a little worried he wouldn't be able to hear Meres say _all right_ ever again without thinking about how it sounded when Meres was fingering him and expecting direction. “Yeah," he said, perhaps too faintly. "It's all right." There were worse things, he decided, than having dirty thoughts whenever Meres said innocuous phrases, or making plans around a certain piece of furniture for the foreseeable future. Worse things. “Toby?” he asked after a while, lifting his head to look at Meres.

“Hmm?”

“Would you ever have told me about this?”

"About the colonel’s plan?”

Callan meant that, and not, at the same time. Because the colonel’s plan- that he had come up with it, that Meres had found a way around it, that it had finally come back on them after all these years- was a symptom, not the disease. And not the thing that Callan really wanted to know if Meres would, left to his own devices, have ever spoken of aloud. But he thought perhaps he had asked enough of Meres for one night, so he only nodded. 

Meres shrugged. “I considered it when he came back. But I thought you two could probably manage not to get too much under each other’s skin before he was gone again. Though I did worry a bit, after that pet shop business turned so ugly. I started to think he might try it again with somebody else if-”

“There couldn’t have been anybody else.”

Meres swallowed heavily.

Callan watched his throat bob a moment. “But I meant why didn’t you _tell_ me, not why didn’t you warn me.”

“Ah." Meres swallowed again. "Well. Whatever I did- or _didn't_ do- I wasn't trying to make a point to you. _It_ wasn’t-”

 _Intended as a romantic gesture. Anything I imagined you would take as one_. Callan supposed it made sense; Meres didn’t always know when he had done something wrong. It figured he wouldn’t be sure when he’d done something right either.

“But if I had any idea the effect it would have, I suppose I would’ve.”

Callan supposed that answered his question- and maybe the others he hadn’t asked as well.

“About Hunter’s office,” Meres said slowly.

“Said I’d take care of it, didn’t I?”

“Yes. But-”

“But?”

“But the timing is awkward. And Hunter isn’t stupid.”

“No, he’s not,” Callan agreed. Hunter’s mind was unlikely to jump straight to bugs, but it might jump to Meres warning him. And Meres couldn’t manage the same trick twice. The colonel had never quite believed it happened like Meres said it did; the current Hunter wouldn’t either if they weren’t careful. Meres would only get away with not picking a side if he didn’t have to for a while. Which meant Callan needed to play very nice indeed, and Meres was right that it wasn’t his strong suit. After everything Meres did, Callan would have to find a way. “Leave it with me, all right? You just concentrate on not looking too besotted while we’re at work.”

“But then he’ll _know_ something’s wrong,” Meres said warmly. He was teasing now, flirting, seriousness melting away- but Callan remembered Hunter saying _there_ is _a reason beyond your loyalty to the section that the colonel selected you for this job, isn’t there_ and it cast a pall where all Meres' fussing about bugs hadn’t.

Callan might not have realized how bad things really were- but he had always known intellectually that Meres was in the crosshairs too. He hadn’t thought very deeply about it, mainly because self-preservation was exhausting enough most days, but also because Meres, in that rather ugly ‘all attention is good attention’ way of his, never seemed to mind. But Callan minded now. 

“It’s my problem as well, isn’t it?” Meres added, beginning to sound like he might doze off between words.

“Careful, Toby- that's dangerously like a marriage vow,” Callan said, trying to cover the unruly little part of him that, recklessly, felt something like one coming on. He wanted to promise never to let anyone use Meres or hurt him again. It wasn’t a promise he could keep- not yet, maybe not ever. He would try, though. 

Meres was evidently awake enough to hit him with a pillow.

It took the wind out of him, and the pang of seriousness too. Callan got the pillow away from Meres and tossed it away. Meres would have to get up if he wanted it back. 

And getting up wasn't a bad idea. He'd like a bath, or to wash off at the very least. And there was a mess underneath him that would go cold and disgusting before too long. "Then we'll solve it," he said, rolling out of bed. If they could, they would. Together- and wasn't that a remarkable idea? And if they couldn’t... it hardly mattered anyway. 

Meres watched him from the bed. His mouth quirked, and- as if he knew what Callan was thinking- he murmured, “Sheep as a lamb, you said.”

“I meant it.”

“And I meant... Oh, you know.”

“I think so.” Callan felt something heavy settling in his throat, but it would pass. He headed for the bathroom, calling back, “Enough to get a better couch?”

“That might be a step too far,” Meres said, as if he expected Callan to believe it was somehow precious to him.

"Is it now?" He could hear Meres get up, following him. Callan smiled to himself. "Well. Maybe I’ll have Lonely steal it off you. In the meantime, you can come to mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come see me on [dreamwidth](https://potentiality-26.dreamwidth.org).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Feelings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20159407) by [Chippa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chippa/pseuds/Chippa)




End file.
